


Devastation

by Alrightbucky



Series: Catastrophe [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Cluedo, Illness, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Suicide, but im not mean enough to drag it out, extreme heat, i dont know why i wrote this, i know its short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9239348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alrightbucky/pseuds/Alrightbucky
Summary: There's an apocalypse, John confesses his love for Sherlock before its too late.





	

It was a bomb, that’s the only explanation anybody could come up with, when they woke up one day to thick mist covering everything, people turned on the TV hoping for an explanation, but the prime ministers and the presidents and the news readers of the world were at a loss to what had happened.  
In the end people assumed it had been some kind of nuclear weapon, a biological weapon more likely. It took a few days, but eventually, finally the mist started to clear.  
The first day it was slightly easier to see out a window people started telling horror stories… about how the mist would clear and in its place would be nothing except destruction. That the mist was in fact just the very start of an alien invasion, that it was some government plan to rid the world of global warming…  
But it actually seemed quite peaceful around London, the capital of the Country, where chaos and people running completely riot was never new.  
The hustle and bustle of the city had quietened and just as if nothing had ever happened, inside baker street Sherlock and John were playing a heated game of Cluedo.  
“Sherlock I said the dining room, you just put her in the kitchen!”  
“Well it’s obvious it happened in the kitchen, can’t you see?”  
“No, I’m sorry I’m not a bloody consulting detective like you but please just put her in the dining room” John was getting frustrated when yet again Sherlock tried to manipulate the pieces into what he wanted them to be and where he wanted them to go.  
“Fine but you’re wrong and you know it” Sherlock said childishly  
“This is why we don’t play this game!” John turned the board over in annoyance and Sherlock flung his arms out, “It was professor plum, in the kitchen with the rope if you’d just listened, as ever you see but you do not observe!” he said and John thought it was lucky the mist was still there or he’d have kicked him out the window.

When it first started Sherlock had stood looking out the window barely being able to see the street below, when John had emerged from the bedroom, “Fascinating” he kept saying until John finally asked him what he was going on about.  
Sherlock kept trying to study it, “Its mist, it’s just water droplets can you please stop it” John felt as if he was on repeat and was more than thankful when one morning the mist had cleared.  
Not leaving anything behind, just the streets and the world as it had always been.  
And people went back to work and started living their lives again.  
Sherlock didn’t even notice it at first, Mrs Hudson came up the stairs coughing one day, walking down the streets more than not would be coughing, wheezing, eyes watering from head spinning colds.  
John woke up with it a few days after and then Sherlock caught it. And suddenly the country was under blankets taking tablets and patting each other on the back as they coughed and spluttered over each other. Breathing with open mouths as they slept on the couch, barely eating.  
Sherlock and John were the same, they were okay for a few days and then Sherlock was telling John about his theory of the mist.  
And it started to fall apart. The world started to become panicked as government officials coughed into their mics and came up with theories about how the mist had fried the earth, destroyed the atmosphere, destroyed everybody’s immune system, poisoned them all.  
Sherlock didn’t actually know what was happening but the days kept going and everybody kept trudging on, worried but not too much.  
It was the middle of January and yet the temperature was rising slowly but surely, reaching the mid-teens, up to 20 by February, the earth was boiling and people were suffering and nobody knew what to do.  
Sherlock and John had figured out the obvious… they were going to die. Sherlock lounged around as comfortably as he could wrapped in a sheet and John who’d lived through Afghanistan summers was still wearing jeans but only just.  
John was laid on the couch, one arm folded beneath his head, watching Sherlock who was looking at him with a small frown.  
When he spoke John only heard the boy Mycroft had told him about, the one with an Irish setter called Redbeard who wanted to be a pirate.  
“Do you think you really notice it? Dying?” He asked  
“no… surely not” John tried to reassure him, before descending into a coughing fit. He wasn’t too worried personally, he didn’t want to die but he’d once accepted his death during the war and now he had Sherlock… well he didn’t _have_ him but it was good enough.  
“Sherlock I…” he started to try and tell him, but Sherlock nodded, “I know” he said. John frowned. Did he? How could he?  
“Sherlock” John tried to put on his most concerned voice and it worked.  
Sherlock sighed and got up, moving to the couch, sitting on john’s feet until he yanked them out from underneath him, sitting up and looking at him face to face.  
“I’ve always known” Sherlock said as if It wasn’t a big deal.  
“What? Why didn’t you ever mention it? Why now?” John asked thinking it was a pretty big deal to not mention the elephant in the room for past couple of years.  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly, “the world is ending” he said quite simply.

It was better after that. Better and worse. Better because they were sleeping beside each other, overlapping, falling asleep and falling in love. Worse because they’d really only just gotten each other and soon enough they would be losing everything.  
John was panicking, the earth was still heating up and it was going to be slow and horrible and there was no escaping how torturous it would feel.  
Sherlock was thinking the same thing but quieter. He never said anything but he sat with John most of the time, leaning his head on his shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist.  
Small touches wherever he could.  
And John loved it, the first time they kissed he felt as if he was on fire, and it was more than the heat that was permanently in the air now, they were walking around naked a lot, too hot to bare, too hot to sleep.  
They were becoming accustomed to sitting up a lot of the night, talking and touching and kissing and revelling in what they had, making it so much more precious only knowing they would soon lose it.  
Sherlock was getting angrier during the days, it wasn’t lack of sleep he could go days on end still perfectly functioning, but the heat was making him crazy, “I can’t do this john where did you put it?” he’d throw things around the small apartment, making John only more worried and scared. He’d hidden the gun a couple of days previous when Sherlock had first tried to find it. Threatening to just kill himself right there and then rather than go on living like they were.  
It didn’t take long for John to reach the same sort of mind set, Sherlock would throw books and stomp around and john laid on the couch and peeled the wallpaper.  
The day they lost Mrs Hudson was the worst. They hadn’t seen her for almost two days and when they found her there was nothing they could do, not just for her but with her body. There was no funeral service, just John sweating in the back yard, digging a grave as if it were for a dog.  
He came inside and Sherlock helped him literally peel his clothes of through sweat, his hair dripping.  
He dragged Sherlock into the shower with him, turning the thermostat to cold, the cold water raining over them, a small relief during the hottest February the world had ever known.  
Sherlock starting being sick first, John feeling dizzy with headaches, the day Sherlock fainted John had panicked.  
It had felt like it was improving, the sweating stopped; still constantly hot but without being constantly soaked with it. But things were definitely worse now. They stayed in bed a lot, not touching, any sudden movement made them both feel 100x worse.  
John’s organs starting failing, and he woke up one night to Sherlock crying. Apparently after falling unconscious Sherlock had assumed the worse.  
Once he started falling in and out of consciousness they both knew it was very nearly the end.  
John groaned as he rolled over to face Sherlock, placing a hand on his soft shoulder. “Hey” he said  
“I love you”, Sherlock smiled,  
“I know”  
“You ass” john said “You could at least say it back”  
“I love you” Sherlock said smiling even bigger  
“Do you mean it?” John asked  
“You know I do” Sherlock assured him. Turning his head to cough weakly into his pillow.

John just needed to hear it, because this felt like a goodbye. After this there really wasn’t going to be anything left for them.  For anybody. They didn’t know what the temperature was anymore but it was the worst either of them had ever experienced, knowing it was most likely the last time, they laid together, tangled with each other as they slept, and as they slept Sherlock’s body shut down, giving in.  
John woke up the next morning, surprised and angry that he woke up at all. He was dying he felt like he was dying, his body telling him he was dying, and he just wanted it to be over. He couldn’t move, he didn’t try to sit up, just rolled a little to his right and whispered Sherlock’s name. When he didn’t respond he shook him, he didn’t want to be alone but it only took a few minutes to realise he was.  
He tried to take his pulse and there wasn’t one, he couldn’t feel his heartbeat, that wasn’t there either.  
Any other day he would have screamed and sobbed and thrown things out the window and hosted a funeral for the man who he loved so greatly, he wanted to do all these things, he wanted a funeral with flowers and love letters and Mrs Hudson and Mr and Mrs Holmes in the front row crying, and Mycroft… he hadn’t even thought of him throughout this whole thing...  He wanted to shake Sherlock’s body to life, shock his heart until it started again but he was weak and dehydrated and he was dying. All he could do was lean out of the bed, groaning in pain as he leant down, feeling underneath the bed until he touched metal.  
He pulled himself back onto the bed, his breathing impossibly quick, his heart rate out of control.  
A last look at Sherlock and he pointed the gun to his temple screwing his eyes shut he pulled the trigger without pausing to think.

  
221B Baker Street was silent, Sherlock laid on his side, ghostly skin and grey lips, his hair still as wild and untamed as it had become during the past few weeks. His face had droplets of blood over it, a bright contrast to his pale skin, there was blood streaked down his shoulders, John’s blood.  
John had fallen back beside him, his face had relaxed, the gun still being held loosely in his hand.  
They would stay like that, there wasn’t anybody to find them, so there they would stay, growing old together but never really _growing old_.  
In a few days at most the rest of the world would be dead. The sun was taking back what it given, it had been a faithful friend for millions of generations, yet now it was wreaking war.  
Taking all the life the planet had known. It was barely a month since the mist had cleared, leaving nothing behind but devastation.


End file.
